Vampires Prefer Blondes
by Lost Angel
Summary: **COMPLETE**Another token 3X4 vampire fic, but I think I put a little of my own spice into it! Also, there's a bit of 6X3 for you Zechs fans. Basically you have the vampire Trowa, human Quatre, you know the rest. ;)
1. Caught In The Rain

Title: Vampires Brefer Blondes Pairing: Quatre/Trowa, Trowa/Zechs By: Lost Angel Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing or anything to do with it. Notes: Thanks for the title Shiva!  
  
Quatre stumbled clumsily down the streets, lazily colliding with people who uttered quiet complaints of "hey there," and "watch where you're going." He didn't know what to watch, because the fact was that he had no idea where he was going.  
  
The day had been a plethora of poor and painful experiences that he knew he didn't want to remember. As the rain picked up its tight grip on him he folded his thin arms around himself to try to keep himself warm.  
  
The city surrounding him showed complete pathetic fallacy to the way he was feeling and acting. Dark passageways seemed more foreboding than usual and torrents of rain and cold were raining down incessantly. The crowds of people seemed to take no heed to this as they talked amongst themselves, more focused on the bright lights and advertisements shouting at them than the frail teenager around them.  
  
Quatre was barely 17, but he didn't look it. His face was covered with the mingling remnants of tears, washed away by the onslaught of water that had started a short while ago. His head of messy blonde hair was unusually matted down, as it was usually gelled into many sharp spikes. Quatre was wearing only what he had on when he had to leave: a dark blue t-shirt and black cargo pants. But he might as well have been naked because the fabric was doing little to still the chill that was forcing its way into his bones.  
  
Exhausted and freezing, Quatre emerged from the crowd to find what looked like a fairly innocent bar, so he entered, hoping to warm himself. It seemed odd that such a swank bar was situated in the part of town usually reserved for clubs and techno dance studios, but he was far too tired and cold to care, so he took a seat at the bar and warmed himself.  
  
It was fairly crowded, surrounded with people talking, but they were drowned out by others, their voices mingling into a white-noise of chit chat and corny pick-up lines. Quatre kept his head down, with a faint showing of pain in his eyes as he blew on his frost-bitten hands.  
  
"Can I get you anything?"  
  
Quatre moved back at the sudden words and looked up. In front of him was a tall, aging man with graying, black hair who didn't seem to mind at all that a young teenager, soaked to the bone, was dripping on the bar. He was portly, but seemed homely, so Quatre made faint smile to try to get on his good side of the contrary proved true.  
  
"Ummm.I think I'll just have." He was desperately trying to search for an answer other than water, but his options were low. Bars didn't take kindly to people ordering water, especially when they were covered with it in the first place.  
  
The bartender didn't seem upset in the least, he simply scooped some ice into a clear glass, and filled it with what appeared to be Coca-Cola. "It's on the house."  
  
Before Quatre could reply the man stuck a slice of lemon on the side of the glass, and went off to check on some other customers. He smiled and took the glass happily, drinking the sweet beverage, and eating the citrus fruit quickly, enjoying the sour taste.  
  
Quatre felt fairly aimless. He didn't know where to go, or what to do. All he had was a Coke and the cloths on his back. Idly, he ran his hand across the other, while surveying the area. After finding nothing of interest (besides two women having a raucous fight at the table behind him), Quatre slumped lower into his chair, waiting for the night to pass him by.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
He had never regretted doing it before. Such a simple nature couldn't be denied, or ignored with a callous swipe of indignation. So he withdrew, his teeth stained red, but he was quick to clean them with his mouth, as he wiped his lips free of any excess liquid.  
  
She had been pretty. A brunette, but unnoticeable, and Trowa made the decision that no one would probably miss her. So he carelessly allowed the body to rest against a wall, and he moved on. Funny, he though, once someone dies he or she no longer has a name. He or she is now only "it" or "the body." Something about this lack of sympathy in his own pray brought a quiver of pleasure to Trowa, and he smirked as he returned to the torrential downpour.  
  
He was sated for the time being, but that didn't mean he would deny indulging in a another fresh kill. All around him were hundreds of people, but the vast majority didn't fit the tastes that Trowa had acquired over the years. He, and most others of his kind, took great care in who they decided to dine upon. After all, you are what, or who, you eat.  
  
Trowa swerved through the sea of young people, until he came to walk behind a tall blonde man. His hair easily went down far below his neck, spilling across his body. He was taller than Trowa, but that didn't factor into his equation, the struggle was half the fun.  
  
The blonde jerked to the right and head through a crack between two apartment buildings, and Trowa followed his movements obediently. When he entered the gloomy passage, he noticed the man was standing serenely still, staring at the cobbles of bricks in front of him.  
  
Assuming nothing, Trowa inquisitively moved closer to the blonde until he was only a few inches behind him. Trowa pondered his next movement for a few short seconds before placing his right hand around the taller man's neck, and grinding his hips against his victim's rear-end.  
  
Trowa smiled at the lack of response from the seemingly coy creature. He would have all the time in the world to show how much he could make him scream, cry, and best of all, beg.  
  
As he was about to move his prisoner about-face, the blonde slipped out of Trowa's control, grabbing both his wrists and slamming him violently against the cold brick wall behind him.  
  
He could feel his head swimming, and Trowa let out a low growl of anger and pain. He jerked both of his wrists, but this only allowed his attacked to squeeze them harder, eliciting a quiet yelp of repeal from the smaller man.  
  
Finally, Trowa took an assessment of the situation and decided it was in his best interests to get a better view of his attacker. Slowly, Trowa opened his eyelids.  
  
"Fuck Zechs, you really are a bastard."  
  
The blonde smirked. "What? You're telling me you don't like this you little whore?" He squeezed his wrists again, harder, and forced his own body against Trowa's, forcing him to stand up straight. The corduroy of Zechs and the denim of Trowa moved rhythmically and Zechs seized this opportunity to force himself even closer.  
  
"Mind letting me go?" Trowa almost cried, now letting the pain in his voice come out clearly as he winced, drawing his eyes shut again. Zechs' hands were like vices around his wrists, and he desperately want relief from it.  
  
Zechs only took this as a predisposed gesture to ask for more, so yet again he pressed himself hard against Trowa, and roughly grasped the brunette's left leg, raising it up to his hip in dominance. Ignoring his question, Zechs replied, "you didn't recognize me pet? I'm disappointed. I thought after all the time that we spent together that you would be able to pick me out." The stronger vampire released Trowa.  
  
Not willing to show relief, Trowa smoothly let his hands crawl up towards Zech's hair and play with a few golden locks. The tassels were smooth in his hands and he rubbed the back of his foot against Zech's back suggestively. "Are you really that full of yourself? Do you honestly think you're that unforgettable?"  
  
In a type of semantically inept dance, Zechs answered Trowa with another question. "How've you been? Get anyone good lately?" His eyes moved around Trowa, he seemed thinner than when he last visited him.  
  
Trowa shrugged and moved his eyes to the ground, eyeing a Coke can. "There aren't many interesting ones around here, nothing like in New York." He smiled whimsically, remembering the night that Zechs and he had gotten their hands on two twin blondes. Memories.  
  
Zechs frowned, somewhat disappointed by the reply. "You should be eating more," he let his hands rub under Trowa's stomach, allowing his index finger to trace semi-circles around Trowa's naval. "I wouldn't want you getting sick."  
  
"Don't worry, I just had some young brunette a couple of minutes ago, I think I'm good for a while." Trowa lowered his leg as he was beginning to have a cramp in it, but as he had thought, Zechs wouldn't allow that.  
  
The second the limb began to recline, it was forced back up again by a strong hand. "Uh-uh, trying to go somewhere? I still have a lot I want to talk to you about." After finishing his taunting, Zechs forced the other leg up, now pressing Trowa against the wall for support. "Now, settle in, because I am not done with you yet."  
  
Trowa fawned a melodramatic sigh. "Not able to get enough like normal? I guess age really does get to you," he snapped his ring finger, moving a few hairs from Zech's brow. "You do look at least 300."  
  
Zechs smirked, accepting the metaphorical challenge he had just received. "You can just say it you know."  
  
Trowa raised an eyebrow bemusement. "What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
The blonde used one of Trowa's hands, dangling like a puppet, to push away a few more stray hairs. "It's your sad little way of begging for me to have my way with you without actually having to say it."  
  
Although Zechs had him right on, Trowa once again fawned ignorance, and answered the previous comment with further silence, and of course, moving his lips dangerously close to his masters'. "Take me then master."  
  
"No."  
  
Trowa moved his lips forward on instinct, but when he felt his legs drop back onto the ground, he stuttered in shock. "What the f."  
  
Zechs moved away and tossed his previously discarded jacket onto his shoulder. "You can't come crawling to me every time you want some, go get a human." Smiling, the blonde retreated back into the night.  
  
Trowa slid down the wall that he previously held prisoner on. The very though repulsed him. He wanted Zechs, not some weak human that he could toss aside on a whim. He wanted an aggressor, an equal that he could challenge and be challenged by. But it appeared that he had no other choice. There was no point in attempting to follow Zechs, he was already gone. 


	2. Tequila

Vampires Prefer Blondes  
  
Part 2  
  
Quatre twirled his straw in semi-circles around the chipped glass, and once again took a look around the establishment, assessing the situation. The bar was beginning to empty of the murmurs of the crowd, and he could sense (and see by the hands on the clock reading an indicative 1:30AM) that soon he would have to leave.  
  
In an act of desperation, Quatre fidgeted in his chair while he tried to put together a logical plan. He had nowhere to go. The shame he felt would never allow him to return, like a pseudo-realistic wall barring all those with such an "affliction" to enter its hollowed walls.  
  
"Pervert!"  
  
"Fag!"  
  
"Cock sucker!"  
  
And finally he left. In blinding strides, Quatre had packed his things as quickly as possible, leaving not a note, a word, or a prayer. He thought a letter full of sad goodbyes and regret wouldn't exactly be fitting to the people that had willed him away, or maybe that term wasn't appropriate either for there not-so-gentle treatment.  
  
Yet he was gone, and he had lived under the false hope that the school would shield him like a bivouac. Unfortunately the realization that his safeguard was the opposite was more harmful than the reasons why he had gone there in the first place.  
  
It wasn't like he didn't know that they found find out someday. He wasn't oblivious to the fact that it would blow up; it was a fact of life. He just wasn't quite in the right mindset that day for his entire life to be flipped upside down.  
  
And then he was. On a bar stool, in May, ready to be yet another tragic figure lodged in the computer database of a morgue.  
  
"It was a real shame you know.But I heard that he was.you know."  
  
He could imagine the snickers while the preacher spoke at some type of mock funeral. How tragedy would be as overused as a plot in a Eudora Welty short story. It was morbid, but the sordid daydream that had suddenly overcome wouldn't relent.  
  
He pictured tulips (a few days old, can't waste money) and the smell of drying rain, and tears, and pity, yet it would all be gone. Once the fragrance of the blooming flowers dimmed and the mourners left, he would be nothing. And that was what he was experiencing at this very moment.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Trowa stalked the streets, lamenting the passed situation. Zechs had left him, a kind of mentor who was teaching his apt pupil a lesson. But did he have to be so fucking crude about it?  
  
Trowa hated it. He hated how he could never get quite what he wanted. Zechs seemed content to inure Trowa into some form of a K-9 relationship where he wagged his tail, and he came drooling, and begging for more.  
  
So maybe it was a good thing for Trowa to learn how to do this on his own. He probed the flashing lights of the city, and walked the traversing thugs as they laughed, and drank, and morosely spoke about the latest movies or TV shows.  
  
Nothing seemed suitable enough for him. But it wasn't vanity; it was simply necessity. He just couldn't put up with the aftermath of what he wanted. If he moved off, and the thing beneath him wanted more, he could always just kill them, it meant nothing. It was just the thought of taking twice that sickened him.  
  
No, once again, it wasn't pity. It was the feeling of seeing that lifeless thing; staring at him after he had just experienced to bouts of arousal. The feeling that he couldn't make up his mind as to what he wanted from his lover, or his victim (or even both), was the most cumbersome aspect.  
  
With Zechs, there was just relief, and they both left each other panting without a single thought of regret and the repercussions that could come after. It was like food without the calories.  
  
But it seemed that Trowa was going to be forced to be hungry tonight.  
  
As he continued his walk, he found a bar that seemed to fit his needs. He wasn't looking for his usual type. He wanted something else. After thinking so, Trowa thought that this almost seemed like shopping for something, or someone.  
  
The thought of taking home a young boy in a baby-blue bag suddenly seemed both delightful and refulgent in its simplicity.  
  
He pulled open the brown oak doors and looked around. He saw men of all types. A tall red-haired man caught his eyes, but his mantra kept urging him to go for something a little less congruent to his usual tastes.  
  
He weaved his way through the crowd of people until he reached the bar. He ordered a drink and sat down, deciding to stake things out and let things happen naturally.  
  
Swinging on his stool, he turned to face a young blonde next to him.  
  
Exactly what he wanted.  
  
He was slim and was still quite soaked from the looks of it. His hair was matted down and his body was held tightly together like it was ready to collapse. His drink seemed to be empty except for a few small ice cubes. What seemed to be most interesting was the fact that he seemed to be young.very young.  
  
"What's a kid like you doing in here?"  
  
Quatre turned to see the body that belonged to the voice that seemed to echo in his ear. His brows rose slightly, and then came crashing down as he visually inspected the man in front of him. It seemed like a cruel joke actually, that someone like him, talk, dark, and handsome would choose to speak to him on the day of his expulsion from normality.  
  
"Excuse me?" Quatre was actually quite taken aback at this man's comment. He wasn't used to being spoken to so-straightforwardly.  
  
Trowa smirked and put down his drink. He turned back to the young man and leaned on the bar. "I was just wondering why a teenager was in a bar, it seems to me like this isn't the kind of place for someone like you."  
  
Quatre instinctively moved back at the comment. "Maybe I should go then." He began to stand up from the stool when he felt a callused hand grab his, squeezing a little too strongly.  
  
"I think you misunderstood me, if I wanted you to go I would have said so. I just was curious as to what you're doing here."  
  
"Then may I ask why are you so interested in me?"  
  
Trowa stood up and grabbed onto Quatre's free hand. He then physically seated Quatre back in his seat, then returned to his own. "It isn't polite to answer a question with a question."  
  
This was becoming more interesting.  
  
"Then why are you so quick to dodge them?"  
  
Trowa frowned, and quickly swiped his know unused hands through his damp hair. "Bartender, could you get me another tequila, double."  
  
Quatre was even more interested now. He turned his head away and leaned on the bar, just as this man had done only a few seconds earlier.  
  
When the glass full of the golden liquor surfaced, Trowa threw his head back, easily drinking half of the glass. He then slid the glass over to Quatre, who seemed almost clueless at the sight of it.  
  
"I'm Trowa."  
  
Quatre blinked and motioned the glass back, recalcitrant to try something that might impair his better judgment. "I don't drink."  
  
Trowa left the glass on the backlit plastic dividing them. The glow only seemed to lighten Quatre's features, and darken those of Trowa's. "Let's be honest here. Do you not drink, or have you just not tried it yet?"  
  
Quatre fidgeted again in his chair and didn't answer.  
  
Trowa shrugged, and picked up the glass again, emptying the remnants into his mouth.  
  
Quatre turned away, not really wanting to see what he was going to do next. He still didn't have the slightest idea why he was talking to him. But the fact became painfully clear when the man stood briskly, and slammed his lips to Quatre's forcefully.  
  
The young blonde bucked slightly until he felt the deep golden tequila empty its way down his throat. Trowa then moved in slightly, forcing Quatre's legs open to make room for him to deepen the kiss.  
  
Quatre felt his lips being squeezed open not just by the burning sensation of the liquor, but by a smooth, hot tongue prying them open calmly. Quatre unknowingly made a small whimpering noise as he felt the probing flesh force down every ounce.  
  
Once the contact ended, Trowa sat back down, and motioned to the bartender for another glass full.  
  
Quatre only coughed violently, feeling he was going to be sick.  
  
"So, going to tell me your name?"  
  
The recovering boy turned with a look of bewilderment covering his features. "Quatre, and isn't it customary to ask someone before you cram your tongue down their throat?" He emptied his own glass, hoping the cool ice would help relieve the sickening feeling in his stomach.  
  
"Hm, Quatre, want to join me at a table so I may next time ask you before, as you put it, 'jam my tongue down your throat?'"  
  
Not waiting for a reply, the taller man stood up and walked not so politely threw a few groups of people.  
  
And to his relief, the younger blonde was following obediently behind him. Trowa sat down roughly at a two-person table close to a window, and Quatre took the seat across from him, slightly relieved that this position would most-likely prevent a future assault.  
  
"So Quatre, you still haven't answered me." Trowa took his third drink from the bartender, who quickly returned to his station. Again, Trowa emptied it almost immediately.  
  
Trowa sat back comfortably in his chair as he waited for a response. "I guess I had no place better to go." Quatre rested his arm on the windowsill, watching for a reaction from Trowa in his peripheral vision.  
  
"Well that's not very creative now is it? I thought a blonde like you would be out with some pathetic closeted football player, blowing him in the backseat." Trowa laughed lightly and leaned forward, eagerly awaiting a reply.  
  
Quatre showed a repulsed look on his face and he quickly responded. "I don't know what you think about me, but it's obvious that you're making some really quick judgments about me. If it doesn't seem impolite to ask, why do you ask?"  
  
"Well it just seems that a pretty guy like you, soaked to bone, probably was just fucked and left high and dry, or maybe wet if you look at it literally." Trowa didn't hold back this time, and laughed loudly with a rich, deep voice.  
  
Quatre decided that his reactions seemed to be the things fueling this kind of treatment, so he bent over, and decided that he would make things more interesting. "Oh yes, you're right," Quatre chimed. "I'm a runaway orphan boy who was dumped by the cruel priest when he found someone prettier, that would entertain your fantasies wouldn't it? And would you please tell me why you're so interested in seeing me squirm?"  
  
"Hmm, come on, you can think of something more interesting than that. And to answer your other question, I'm interested because I think a new you would be a little more interesting."  
  
"Meaning?" Quatre perked his ears, almost dreading the response as much as he anticipated it.  
  
"Meaning," Trowa emptied another drink that Quatre hadn't noticed him order, "you should try drying off a bit, then come do something with me."  
  
Quatre didn't like where this was going, and he pushed his chair back. "I really think I should just go." and he stood, determined to leave this time. He wasn't sure that the tequila was sitting well with him.  
  
Trowa stood to meet him, and moved closer, imposing his size advantage on the younger man. "Will you come with me if I'm right about one thing?"  
  
Quatre simply blinked at the taller man, and Trowa took this as an affirmation to continue.  
  
"You look like a smart kid. My hunch is that some assholes kicked your ass for being a fag, then you ran away, convinced that would fix your problems right? And then you run into an older man at a bar you stumbled into who just wants to get in your pants. Well you can either leave and probably end up at some shelter, or you can come with this strange older man to his apartment and see what happens there, your choice." Trowa once again walked away, leaving Quatre alone.  
  
Trowa moved towards the door and pushed them open.  
  
Quatre stood still for a few seconds, and watched Trowa walk away through the glass window.  
  
"Hey!" Quatre ran quickly, and followed him outside, turning him around, surprised at how much forced that required. "You just can't pull that shit on me! You may be right about what you just said, but I'm not going to just play along." Quatre grabbed Trowa's collar, shaking with rage from both the alcohol, and his entire day. "Some cheap leather, booze, and someone's tongue aren't just going to cheapen me like some little slut! So just fuck off!" Quatre released Trowa's clothing roughly and turned around with a little less grace than he had wanted to. How could anyone drink four of those things?  
  
Trowa just stepped slowly after him, up a small hill, and to his dismay, it began to rain forcefully again. The pellets of water began to soak him, and Quatre more completely than they had before. "Oh don't give me this little innocence routine."  
  
Quatre kept walking, though increasing his pace.  
  
When he received no reply from the younger man, he took more drastic action. Trowa grabbed Quatre firmly by his coat collar and pulled him into an alley that he had been in just an hour earlier. "If you were really so noble, then why did you follow me to that table after I practically assaulted you? It's obvious. Even if you try to hide it, there's still a little whore that's begging to spread his legs, deep down."  
  
Quatre was only able to look up at the imposing man in front of him, who was now caging him from both sides with his large arms. This man, whoever he was, was so intent on getting attention. The insults didn't seem to mean so much as the fact that they were directed at him.  
  
Quatre wiped some water from his hair, and gave the man a wet kiss on the cheek, eliciting a smirk from Trowa, as he motioned for Quatre to follow him out of the alley.  
  
"Well if we're going to go back to your place, could you at least lend me your jacket?" 


	3. Drip Drop

Vampires Prefer Blondes, Part 3:  
  
By: Lost Angel  
  
The walk back to his apartment was short and oneiric. Quatre tried to plaster a kind of placid indifference on his face, because he was no longer permitted to shiver from the cold if he still wanted to be perceived as normal.  
  
Trowa had given him his jacket after all. This seemed rather appropriate for his type, or at least as the type Quatre thought him to be. He could picture him as a man traveling. He would go around the world, but not going to the see the Great Wall of China or the Eiffel Tower. He saw him sitting in hotel rooms, looking out at the faces passing him. He saw him listening to the radio, simply to observe what others were doing and saying at that moment in time.  
  
It was a dream state, and probably an illusion. He would probably find out Trowa was a drunk (as his orders had indicated), or he would find something wrong. It was to be expected.  
  
This night would turn out to be a sacrosanct attempt at intimacy and love, only ending up to be a perverse dance amongst some sheets. And he didn't expect much else from this. Trowa was nice to him in his own way, and while he was with him, he felt safe. Even if it was from a false sense of physical might. After all, it was to be expected.  
  
"How much farther?" Quatre asked tentatively, feeling silly in the lavishly oversized jacket. It smelt like tequila, and though the scent would normally exude alcoholism, it seemed to fit.  
  
Trowa took a left turn in the sidewalk and Quatre saw the dilapidated town transform into a lavishly built-up area that he had not quite noticed before.  
  
He saw apartment complexes with balconies that were clean and freshly painted (though empty, it was out of fashion to stand out on them). He saw bars with live music, though it was probably some piano or violinist entertaining a false dream of stardom.  
  
He saw flashing lights being beat down by the rain, and he ducked instinctively, being afraid that he may somehow be shocked.  
  
Trowa finally answered when they both arrived at a small door, snuggly built into the wall. It seemed almost invisible. "We're here, don't worry about noise or anything, no one else lives here."  
  
Quatre followed him through the door, and waited as he re-locked each part in sequence. "You live here by yourself?" Quatre moved his eyes around feverishly at the narrow staircase. It seemed that the entire building was just one floor at the top.  
  
Trowa nudged Quatre aside and walked up the steps hastily. "Don't make it sound so pathetic," he murmured as he reached the top. He turned around and motioned Quatre to follow. "You're not going to just stand there are you?"  
  
The blonde ran up the stairs and met Trowa, trying to look as capable as possible. He looked young enough, being perceived even more so would be downright damaging.  
  
At the top of the stairs was a sliding door made out of some type of heavy metal. Trowa slid it open and Quatre entered first.  
  
The apartment was expansive and gorgeous. To his right was a living room decorated lavishly with leather upholstery and archaic rugs, paintings and figures that he couldn't imagine ever learning the name of. To his left was the kitchen, which seemed more homely and ordinary with stainless steel appliances. Beyond the kitchen was what appeared to be a bedroom, but it wasn't sectioned off in any way. The only distinguishable difference from the rest of the apartment was a small step up, and a sudden, intransigent change in colour from hardwood to deep blue.  
  
Trowa walked by Quatre again and headed towards the bedroom, stripping himself of his wet shirt in the process.  
  
Unsure of what to do, Quatre followed him to find Trowa stripping himself of his black jeans as well. Not wanting to seem naïve, the younger man simply sat down on the neatly made bed, and sat while his host continued to remove his clothing.  
  
Trowa kneeled down to reach a small beside chest where he retrieved a fresh towel. After doing so, he proceeded to walk past his guest, totally unassuming of his blatant sexuality, and enter the bathroom. The door shut behind him.  
  
Quatre removed the jacket, and not knowing where to put it, just threw it on the ground with the rest of Trowa's discarded clothing. "The whore," as Trowa had labeled him, found it particularly interesting how different Trowa seemed without his clothing. With the dark fabrics on, he exuded a type of mystery that had seemed to die with noire films. But when he was so exposed, he felt like he didn't have that to give. He felt like Trowa was cheap. He felt that he was now on a level playing field. He felt like Trowa could be an insurance salesman.  
  
The water began to run, and the perpetual clings of water droplets mixed with the existing onomatopoeia of the rain outside.  
  
"Are you taking a shower?" Quatre's voice cracked once again, as he sat stiffly on the bed. Despite the maladroit nature of the situation, he was rather comfortable on what he assumed to be the most expensive material he had ever touched.  
  
He received no answer, so he laid back, exhausted for some reason. It seemed trivial to be tired after only walking a few blocks, even if it was mostly up hill. Maybe the overly heavy fabric of the jacket he had been wearing bogged him down. Because that's exactly how he felt.  
  
Bogged down. It seemed like the very situation he was in was comparable to sinking. He was hopeless, because there was no way out and no alternative. He was a boy, sitting in a bed, with another man a few feet away from him in the shower. He was crawling up into a fetal position, and his own arms seemed to be his only comfort.  
  
He could picture Trowa in the shower, wiping himself, and he felt gratified that at least someone in his immediate vicinity was enjoying some facet of his life. He could see the soap and the water running down his body to the drain, and he could see what would be coming after. He knew what was coming after.  
  
Quatre turned over and faced the entrance to the bathroom, the door wide open, the sound of the water still cascading his thoughts. He wiped a few strands of hair from his view, and unconsciously straightened the ruffled cushions into place as he stood. He walked slowly to the bathroom, and motion for the door to open just a few more inches. He saw the silhouette of Trowa.  
  
It seemed like his duty, and an inevitability in his life, so he undressed. First he removed his shirt, and then his pants and the remainders of his cloth, moving them into a corner near the furnace. Quatre was naked in the bathroom with a stranger.  
  
Of all the possibilities that could unfold from this situation, he was sure of what was going to happen, and he once again nervously placed a few strands of hair into their corresponding places.  
  
Quatre pulled back the curtain of the shower, and saw Trowa, rinsing off some remaining suds and lather from his formed body. They both stood there for a moment, before Trowa moved aside, and let Quatre move himself into the slippery tub.  
  
Trowa pulled the curtain shut, and the water hit the blonde like a punch, as he felt two warm hands climb around his body. But he felt like a possession, and he was being carried, similarly to a TV remote, a plate, a sandwich, anything. But he knew that Trowa wasn't thinking about Quatre, he was just another boy for him.  
  
The arms moved around him, and he could feel the suction of air from both the fan, and Trowa's nose. He could feel himself being smelled, touched, appraised, poked and prodded, and he was helpless.  
  
How would things end? Would things end in the shower? Quatre remained silent as Trowa's hands moved lower, and lower, and lower.  
  
He felt so dirty. Trowa had showered and washed, and this was only the blonde's entrance. It seemed inadequate for him to be less groomed, and he soon felt a bar of soap wander up and down his body.  
  
"Why are you so afraid?" said Trowa.  
  
Quatre turned to face the taller man. "You insinuate far too much."  
  
"And you seem to think that I'm stupid, if I wanted to fall for the school boy routine I could have fucked you in that alleyway and left you bleeding to die."  
  
Quatre tensed a bit, and Trowa rubbed his arms, which seemed odd after such gratuitous vulgarity. "Don't you think using a little tact could help things a bit?"  
  
Trowa smiled, moving his head to rest softly on the younger boy's arm. "This coming from the whore who walked in on me in the shower?"  
  
He was beginning to like the name. Not in the direct translation, but in the context of how it was said. He wasn't calling him a whore, he was calling him whatever he thought what a whore was. Quatre almost considered it a compliment.  
  
"Well I guess I just thought I was fulfilling my part of the bargain." Quatre moved back a bit, forcing Trowa's head to now rest against his forehead.  
  
His lips seemed so hot.  
  
"And that would be?"  
  
His voice didn't rise; he just looked at him. "To fuck you, I am your whore right?"  
  
It was then when his ideas fell apart. If he could pinpoint the beginning of things, he could call it there. Sure, the incident at the bar could be called the catalyst, but this was far more interesting.  
  
Trowa moved slightly forward, ensuring their bodies were together, tightly, melded. "Could I ask for a kiss first?"  
  
Trowa inched forwards, giving him the chance to move back, even though we would have done it anyway. His lips moved to Quatre's, and the brunette forced his neck back, enveloping him, and he squeezed the blonde further with the sinewy cords of his muscles. The almost rhythmic sounds of saliva and water pulling apart, and rejoining. Trowa had no reason to stop, so he continued, forcing his tongue, and the humidity of his mouth in Quatre's.  
  
Quatre was in the shower. With a man. And there were sounds of rain, shower droplets, and kisses coming from the room.  
  
And in the bed, there was no one. Regrets were for later. 


	4. King's Bedding

Vampires Prefer Blondes: Chapter 4  
  
King's Bedding  
  
The bedding was ruffled from tumblings and curses from the previous night. The rest of the apartment seemed unaffected by the strange visitor. Light was streaming gloomily on an overcast day as two men slept well into the afternoon; for reasons entirely different and exclusive of each other.  
  
The blonde was lying on his stomach, head muffled into a pillow that wasn't his own, resting calmly. Contrary to his bindings from both sheets and flesh, he felt like both the oppressors of the previous night and the saviors in a dreamlike alfresco, surrounded him. He wasn't sleeping though.  
  
He hadn't quite understood what had gone on between them that night. They had been too quite, and entire junta appeared to be sentencing him. Despite the open nature of the room (or rooms), he felt confined by the deeds he had committed the night previous. He had kissed and touched and groped and every other possible action, and this was the aftermath of what had occurred. He was lying naked in a bed with a man, and he wasn't a virgin.  
  
"Why are you awake?" Trowa mused and rolled over to his side, still looking unimpressed and he rubbed Quatre's arm.  
  
The younger man played at a smile and buried his face deeper. "I guess I can't sleep," he seemed to be partitioning off his emotions to Trowa. "I've never done something like that before."  
  
Trowa moved closer and moved his other hand to clutch at Quatre's side, moving his fingers up and down the curves of his spine and vertebras. "You don't regret it though."  
  
"No, I don't. So what's your point?" He brought his mouth closer, so that they were almost breathing each other's gasps, exhales, and pants.  
  
Trowa rolled off onto one of his sides and moved his left arm to support his neck. "I guess I just expected for you to be depressed, young guys like you tend to think of this kind of thing as more than what it is."  
  
Quatre was silent and he looked around the empty room again, adjusting himself so he was sitting up against the bedposts as Trowa was. It was so empty in the room that he couldn't bring himself to move from the bed. Going anywhere would require so much walking that he felt it might be awkward.  
  
With much transposed alacrity, he moved out of the bed and began to dress. Trowa watched him, buttoning his pants, pulling on his ruffled and dirty shirt. He doubted he would offer to wash anything. He thought that leaving might prove some type of sympathetic comfort for either of them. So he continued to dress even as Trowa stood from the bed and walked in front of him. He stared; his eyes blinking and showing nothing short of disgust, and Quatre only caught a few quick glances of the pupils as they dilated.  
  
"You're still so young," Trowa sighed and began to dress himself.  
  
Quatre was just smoothing out his shirt when he caught what he had said and immediately began for further vehement arguments. "Why do you say that, because I'm not acting like a piece of meat. It would be a little too easy for you that way wouldn't it?"  
  
Cotton covered the marbled skin of the brunette as he replied. "See, you don't regret it but you still expect me to make something up to you. Why don't you just say that you wished I would just throw you down and fuck you again?"  
  
"I have to get out of here." Quatre turned without any further sentiment and began his proportionally gargantuan walk towards the exit.  
  
He took one final glance, with the man he had lost his virginity to standing next to his bed, gently smirking again.  
  
He had to say something at least, to him, he doubted he would ever be in a circumstance (regardless if he ever saw him again) where he could articulate his feelings. "OK, so I slept with you, and it was my first time, and when I walk out this door all I'll have is a pain in the ass and a smell from your booze, but like you said, I don't regret it."  
  
They stared on, and they truly knew each other then.  
  
There was a boy, and a man, a demon of a man, a vampire, and they had known each other if only for a night. And in that night they met someone that they had dreamed of. Across the entire Earth, neither could imagine a harlequin tale of subsequent flamboyant passion nearly as engendering.  
  
"Let's see if you regret anything," and he left the apartment.  
  
THE END  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
^^;;; I know, I know.no lemon! Well, I'll probably eventually post a continuation or a side story or something on my site, I just have other stuff to get to, and I think I got out what I meant to in that last little bit.  
  
Don't be mad! *gets up flame shield* 


End file.
